


Ghost

by Kitannax



Series: Overwatch Fics [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game), overwatch
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Breathplay, Choking, F/M, PWP, Shameless Smut, Smut, porn without plot/plot what plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7156958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitannax/pseuds/Kitannax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You(Reader) spend a night with the creature that was once Gabriel Reyes.</p><p>PWP</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost

You've never seen his face. You know that beneath the cloak, the gloves, the mask, his skin is cold and solid, whether from muscle or something ethereal, you don't know. His hair is shaggy, and he has a beard. That's all you know. You don't know what colour his hair is. Even what his eyes look like. It's not some weird kink or anything. He's just taking precautions. He's a wanted murderer. He can't be identified, and you know it. So you tolerate it, take whatever he gives. 

Cold lips brush the back of your shoulder before teeth sink into the sensitive flesh. He told you his name, once. He doesn't like when you use it spontaneously or in everyday conversation. But moments like this? He's happy to allow it. 

"Gabriel," you chide gently, "that hurt." 

"Good." The deep, rough voice that doesn't sound quite human almost purrs into your ear, those same sharp teeth nipping at your earlobe. He has you on all fours, cold, solid hands gripping your hips roughly. Any moment now, you know, he'll push into you, spread you wide open for him and take his pleasure of you. Not that you ever protest. Because despite everything, his coldness and cruelty, you enjoy it every time. 

He lays another bite to your neck, brushing your hair aside, sucking on your supple flesh as three cold fingers stroke your dripping sex. You're certain he finds your arousal in regards to him a source of amusement. No matter. 

"Every time..." He murmurs, one hand removed from your waist to guide himself against you, the swollen head of his cock rubbing insistently against your entrance. 

You spread your legs wider, as though begging him to take you. Death and rebirth - or whatever happened to him - has not left him without cues. Wordlessly, save for a low, primal grunt, he sheathes himself inside you with one agonising thrust.

"Do you fear death?" He asks you this a lot, too. 

"Not anymore," you reply; one hand reaches up to grasp your throat. 

"You should." The low growl of a warning is all he says before he sets a rough pace that would be painful if you weren't used to it. Instead, the pleasure washes over you as he releases your throat, presses your face down into the mattress and slams his hips against yours relentlessly. Every sharp snap of his hips brings new pain, new pleasure. He's being so goddamn rough with you that you'll be covered in bruises, bite marks, and god knows what else in the morning. 

When your screams and moans grow too loud, his hand clamps down on your throat again, forcing you to conserve what little breath you can take in as he sets a pattern of withdrawing almost fully, then slamming back in, withdrawing almost fully, and repeat. 

He's going to make you come soon, you can tell. Not that he really seems to care whether you get off, although there was that one time he went down on you.... That's how you learned he had a beard, and God, did you have that night committed to memory. The soft wetness of his tongue in stark contrast to cold lips on your folds... You shivered at the delicious memory, closer now to release than you had been mere seconds before. 

By the sound of his laboured breaths, he was getting close, too. You push back against him, meeting every deep thrust as well as you can, finally tightening around him, whimpering and moaning as you climax, gasping for breath as he releases your throat, both hands on your waist again as his pace changes, becomes more erratic, a telltale sign. 

Sure enough, moments later, he releases inside you with a deep groan and a series of breathless pants as he thrusts shallowly. He gives you a moment to catch your breath before he pulls out of you; instantly, you miss the contrast of his cold skin against yours, which contrarily feels like it's burning. 

"Same time next week?" You dare to ask. 

"Hmm. I'll turn the light on before I leave. Don't open you eyes." He instructs. 

You do as he says, waiting until you hear the door to your room click shut before opening your eyes. Sighing, you sit up, wrap the tangled sheets around yourself, alone once again with only a cool chill in the air and an ache all over you as proof he was ever there at all.


End file.
